Restrained
by Alipeeps
Summary: Request fic for Kodiak Bear Country feat. Sheppy in restraints. Shep whumpage galore. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a request fic written for the very wonderful Kodiak Bear Country (if you haven't read her fics, go check em out!). I asked her to suggest a subject matter and she said she'd like to see Sheppy in restraints! So... here he is... as requested:)_

_All comments and feedback welcome. This fic should end up being 3 to 4 chappies long at most._

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Sheppard has woken up in an infirmary bed far too many times. He's starting to get used to it. But this time was different; he realised that almost as soon as he woke up, feeling stiff and bruised and achy. He returned to consciousness with a groan, tried to stretch out his aching muscles and was brought up short. His eyes snapped open at that. The ceiling above was bland and white, featureless. Definitely not the delicate tones and colours of Atlantis. He rolled his head on the pillow and looked down at his arms. The other main difference between wherever this was and Atlantis was that in the Atlantis infirmary he's not usually restrained.

The straps around his wrists were thick leather. He jerked his arms, hard, but only succeeded in jarring his shoulders. The straps looked new and the leather felt stiff, the edges sharp against his skin. They were pulled tight, pinning his arms to the metal rails along the side of the bed; there was almost no give, no room to manoeuvre. He twisted futilely, pulling against the restraints enough to be able to raise his torso a little from the bed and look around him. The room was small and plain, bare of furniture other than his infirmary-style bed. The walls were as bland and white as the ceiling, the smooth uniformity of the walls broken only by a single door – painted white, but of course.

Sheppard fell back to the bed with a grunt of exertion, his arms trembling from the strain of holding his bodyweight up from the mattress. This was really not a good situation. He was alone, separated from his team, tied to a bed and – a glance down at himself confirmed his assumption – without any of his weapons. In fact, his tac vest and his uniform were gone and he had been dressed in something not too different from Atlantis' infirmary scrubs. The plain white fabric was slightly coarse and scratchy. Even his feet were bare, his boots and socks missing. He sighed. It was a better than fair guess that whoever had put him in this situation did not have his best interests at heart. At least he had the consolation of knowing that his team had gotten clear. His recollection of recent events was admittedly a bit fuzzy but his last clear memory was of screaming at his team to get clear, to go through the gate, and seeing them do just that, reluctantly, before something slammed into him, a sharp pain spreading quickly through his entire body, almost like an electrical shock, leaving numbness in its wake.

He'd awoken here, in this white room.

He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, where he'd been taken – heck, if he was even on the same planet. He really hoped he was. He knew his team would not give up on him; they'd have been organising a rescue party as soon as they stepped out of the event horizon in Atlantis. Problem was, they'd gotta find him first. His mind raced, looking for options and strategies. He couldn't afford to just wait and hope that his team would find him, he needed to be doing something to get himself out of this situation, something proactive. Lying around waiting for the inevitable was not his style. Aside from that, he really wasn't too keen on finding out what his captors had in store for him.. suffice to say the hospital-style setting did not bode well. Unfortunately his options were really pretty limited right now. Getting out of these restraints would have to be a priority.

He pulled at the restraints again and grimaced as the stiff edges of the leather dug into his flesh. He still felt kinda weak, his body aching as though he'd been thoroughly pummelled, and he wondered what the hell kind of a weapon they'd hit him with. Whatever it was, it had hurt like hell and had pretty much knocked him out in an instant. They hadn't even had a chance to find out who they were up against; they'd been ambushed almost as soon as they stepped through the gate. Sheppard fumed helplessly, the muscles in his arms bulging as he tried to force a little give out of the wrist restraints. There'd been an almighty fuck-up somewhere along the line – their arrival on PT7-85N had been expected and the welcoming party had left a lot to be desired.

As was their custom, Sheppard had taken the lead, the team slipping easily into a loose formation as they'd exited the wormhole. They'd been cautious, as was always the case when visiting a new world, but not really expecting trouble. They'd moved barely 20 feet from the gate when he'd caught movement out of the corner of his eye and, even as Ronon had shouted a warning, had felt a sharp pain in his neck, looking down in surprise to find a tassled dart protruding from the juncture of his neck and left shoulder. His legs had buckled under him even as he'd shouted for the others to retreat. Shots had begun to fire from the treeline as he'd collapsed to the ground, whining, sizzling noises crackling over his head as his team returned fire. Their attackers didn't seem to be great shots but they kept up enough of a barrage of fire to keep his team pinned down near the gate. Sheppard had been left exposed, crumpled on the mossy earth, his team unable to reach him. Whatever drug that dart had been tipped with had been fast-acting, producing a spreading paralysis that had left him still able to feel, to process sensation, but had rendered him almost completely immobile within moments. He'd done the only thing he could, ordered his team to get the hell out of there before they too got hit.

It occurred to John now that no-one was that bad a shot – certainly not when they could hit exposed skin with a small dart at a distance of 30 feet. So that meant their attackers hadn't even tried to take the rest of his team – just him. The question was, had they been after him specifically, or had they just taken the man in front, the one they presumed to be the leader? He pulled harder at the restraints, growling in a mixture of frustration and growing pain as he jerked his wrists back and forth, hoping for some kind of give in the tight bindings, just a glimmer of hope.

The skin on his wrists was beginning to burn under the chafing of the stiff, unyielding leather. The bed rattled and shook slightly as he gritted his teeth and jerked and pulled harder and harder at the restraints, his breath coming in harsh pants as he tensed and strained. The throbbing at his wrists had become so constant that at first he didn't notice when the abraded skin began to bleed, only slowly becoming aware of the damp, hot sensation against his skin.

"Dammit!" He slumped back against the firm mattress breathlessly, letting his arms go limp, feeling the muscles tremble from exertion. He muttered a couple more choice swearwords as he tried to catch his breath. Raising his head to peer down his body, he took a look another look at the thick leather straps, noting the bright red blood slowly oozing out from under the restraints, smearing across the skin of his arms, staining the pristine white sheets. He allowed himself a slightly twisted grin as an idea came to mind: lubrication. Changing tack, he started twisting his wrists around inside the restraints, his lips thinning as he ignored the burning, scraping pain, smearing the blood around as much as he could, trying to work it into the leather, making his skin slippery.

It felt like his wrists were on fire but we kept turning his arms inside the leather straps, rubbing and rubbing, the motion becoming easier as more and more blood seeped out to slide between his wrists and the thick straps. After a few moments, he stopped, breathing heavily as he lay back on the bed, stifling a groan at the throbbing pain in his arms. He was starting to feel somewhat groggy, whether from the exertion, blood loss or a combination of the drugged dart and stunner weapon they'd used to take him down, he couldn't be sure. His head swam for a moment and he closed his eyes, breathing shallowly as he waited for the sensation to pass.

When he felt less dizzy, he lifted his head up and glared at the restraints. Blood stained the white sheets covering the mattress and had spattered across the pants of his infirmary scrubs. The leather straps were slick with it. Gritting his teeth, John curled his right hand inwards, pushing his thumb and little finger towards each other, trying to reduce the width of his hand as much as possible, and began to slowly pull against the restraint, putting steady pressure on the thick strap, working his hand from side to side slightly as he tried to slide it through the narrow opening. His face twisted into a grimace, a growl rumbling from his chest as he fought to keep up the pressure, ignoring the trembling muscles in his arm, the sharp fiery pain in his wrist.

He could have sworn he felt the leather give just a little, his hand slide just a fraction up into the restraint, when suddenly the door opened.

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_TBC..._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for all the lovely reviews - you guys are ace:)_

_Cranking up the whumpage levels in this chapter - it's a wee bit evil and violent so don't say you weren't warned!_

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There wasn't much point in trying to hide what he had been doing; the blood stained sheets were something of a giveaway. So Sheppard opted to brazen it out. He let himself relax back onto the mattress, breathing slowly and carefully as he eased off the pressure on the wrist restraint, biting down on a grunt of pain as raw flesh scraped against stiff leather. His voice was a lot calmer than he felt as he lifted his head from the pillow to address his visitor.

"You know, the hospitality in this place sucks."

The man who stood in the doorway smiled briefly at that but didn't bother to reply. John took the opportunity to study his captor as the man moved into the room, leaving the door open behind him for another two men to follow him into the small room. It was beginning to feel pretty darn crowded in here. The man in charge - his demeanour alone made that quite clear – was tall and slim, his manner confident as he strode over to the bed, looming over John as he looked him over, his eyes lingering on the bloody sheets. The man's face was relaxed, pleasant even, but Sheppard noticed that the eyes were sharp and cold.. and they didn't miss a detail. John was busy taking note of a few details of his own and he didn't like what they were telling him. The sharp-eyed man was dressed in what was pretty clearly a doctor's uniform, somewhat stylised perhaps to John's earth-biased eyes but definitely doctor's clothes, right down to the white coat. His two friends were muscle, pure and simple, broad-chested and wearing something reminiscent of orderlies' uniforms. Sheppard was liking this situation less and less. He decided to name the lackeys Dastardly and Muttley. The sharp-eyed man looked like a... Pete. Yeah, definitely a Pete.

Pete's smile seemed to display genuine amusement as he lifted his gaze from Sheppard's bloodied wrists.

"Colonel Sheppard," the man's voice was genial, his lips curved into a warm smile as he regarded Sheppard amiably, "what could you hope to achieve by this?"

Well, that answered one of Sheppard's questions. They knew who he was. That meant they'd targeted him deliberately. Not a good sign.

Pete's smile only widened as he reached for the bloodied restraint on Sheppard's right wrist. "You've made quite the mess and have caused yourself pointless pain and injury." His voice was calm, eminently reasonable, as he tugged hard on the buckle, pulling the thick strap tighter around Sheppard's wrist. The stiff leather dug painfully into Sheppard's damaged flesh, the strap pinching tight around his wrist, removing any slack he had managed to work into it. Pete's cold eyes took in every detail of Sheppard's involuntary grunt of pain, the way his muscles tensed and jerked with it, and he leant forward over the bed to fix Sheppard's strained, mutinous gaze with his own cold one. The smile had vanished now, all humour gone from the voice. "Don't be in such a hurry to leave us, Colonel Sheppard."

Pete leant back abruptly, the smile back in place as he looked down at the seething Colonel. Sheppard fumed, hating being at a disadvantage like this; he was pretty much helpless with his arms pinned like this and felt hemmed in by the three men looming over his bed. Beneath the hot, angry pain in his right wrist, John was aware of a growing tingling in his fingers, a slight sensation of numbness. The wrist strap had been pulled tight enough to restrict the blood flow to his hand.

"We went to quite some trouble to have you brought here, Colonel. I'd hate for you to leave before we've had a chance to... talk."

The minute hesitation, almost certainly deliberate, gave Sheppard a good indication of how things were going to go from here. He pushed down on the instinctive fear of what was to come and forced a casual tone into his voice.

"I usually like to know the names of people I.. talk with." Two could play at that game.

"Oh, we'll get to the introductions in time, John. D'you mind if I call you John?" This guy was far too pleased with himself; he was starting to really piss John off. He decided he was through playing games.

"What the hell do you want from me?" He ground out, letting anger colour his words.

The smile stayed in place but it took on a harder edge. They were getting down to business now. "Information, John. Information." Still maintaining his casual composure, Pete turned away from the bed, speaking over his shoulder as he strolled across the room, his posture relaxed, as though they were just discussing the weather or what they had watched on TV recently.

"We have some.. friends – trading partners, you might say – and they are very interested in you, John. The information you give us will be very... valuable in our trade negotiations." He turned back to Sheppard and his smile had become smug. Sheppard took careful note of that. Over-confidence was a flaw, one he might be able to use to his advantage.

He didn't bother to hide the scorn in his voice. "Sorry to disappoint you but I'm not feeling real talkative right now. You'll have to find something else to trade to the Genii."

The slight tightening of that smug smile told Sheppard he'd scored a hit but there was a gleam in those cold eyes that John really didn't like the look of. Pete nodded to one of his goons – the one John had named Muttley – and the man left the room. Sheppard found he couldn't help tensing up as Pete moved back to stand by the bed, gazing down at John with a malicious tilt to his smile.

"Oh, I think you'll feel more talkative than you might think, John. We can be very.. persuasive."

The door was pushed closed with an audible click as Muttley re-entered the room carrying a small metal tray with a cloth draped over it. The situation was rapidly going south and Sheppard found he really did not want to know what was under that cloth. He jerked impotently at the restraints, heedless of the burn of pain in his wrists, as Pete accepted the tray from Muttley, discarding the cloth to reveal a syringe, already filled with a clear liquid. John grimaced, unable to tear his eyes from the loaded hypodermic. Whatever was in that syringe, it was a better than fair bet that it wasn't going to be any fun for John.

Sheppard was starting to reconsider the name he'd picked for Pete. Maybe Dr Mengele would be better.

The ubiquitous smile was firmly in place as Pete held the syringe casually, handing the tray off to Muttley. "Are you sure you won't reconsider, John? I'm told the side-effects of this little concoction can be.. unpleasant."

It was clear to Sheppard that Pete enjoyed his work just a little too much. He ignored the thinly veiled threat, tensing himself in readiness as the three of them crowded round the bed, his gaze moving from one to the other, calculating distance and options. Their overconfidence had led them to make one mistake, not a big one but enough to at least give him a chance. Sheppard might not have the use of his hands but they'd neglected to restrain his legs. And John Sheppard had no intention of letting them pump him full of their freaky drugs – not without a fight.

Mengele Pete held the syringe upright, using both hands as he carefully depressed the plunger enough to squirt a little fluid from the needle. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, John took his chance. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his wrists, he pulled hard against the restraints, using the leverage to lift his legs up from the mattress in a swift movement that took the three of them by surprise. Before anyone had a chance to react, a well-placed kick slammed into Pete's hands, knocking the syringe from his grasp, quickly followed by a heel to his face which knocked the man staggering. Dastardly and Muttley were slow to react, hired for their muscles rather than their brains it would appear, and by the time Muttley had dropped the tray to reach for Sheppard, he had wrapped his legs around the man's throat, twisting him off-balance and pulling him half over the rail of the bed. His squirming body blocked his companion's effort to grab John and gave Sheppard time to finish his motion, jerking his legs sharply as he put pressure on the man's windpipe. There was a sickening crack and Muttley's body went limp.

Dastardly roared his displeasure as Sheppard unwound his legs to let the body slide to the floor, raising an arm to block John's kick as he lunged forward, managing to wrap his meaty hands around Sheppard's throat. He squeezed hard, cutting off John's air, and Sheppard pulled hard at the restraints, lifting his hips off the mattress as he swung his legs up over his head, scrabbling to get a purchase around Dastardly's throat, or even just a foot under his chin, anything to push the man backward, break his grip. Sheppard was gasping for air, his vision beginning to gray out at the edges, when he felt the stranglehold loosen and was vaguely aware of Mengele Pete's furious voice.

"Let go of him, you fool! We need him alive!"

He sucked in a rasping, painful breath as Dastardly released his grip on his throat, stars dancing momentarily before his eyes. He kicked out instinctively, and was pleased to hear a yelp as the blow connected.

"Grab his legs!" Pete's voice wasn't quite so calm and smug now.

He fought violently against the hands that grabbed at his ankles, kicking out as hard as he could, keeping his legs moving so they couldn't get a firm grip. He was fighting a losing battle now though, two against one. The element of surprise was gone and Sheppard was tiring. Eventually they had him pinned down, all three of them breathing heavily, panting with exertion, Dastardly and Pete each holding on to an ankle with both hands, their fingers digging in cruelly as they leaned heavily onto his legs. Sheppard continued to struggle, his wrists burning as he pulled on the restraints, arching his back up from the bed, but it was futile and he knew it.

Pete seemed to know the moment when Sheppard gave up the fight, releasing his grip on John's ankle once Dastardly had moved one hand across, a snarl on the lackey's face as he leaned his not-inconsiderable weight forward, pushing down heavily on both Sheppard's ankles. John added the new sensation to his growing list of aches and pains. He could hear Pete coughing harshly and turned his head on the pillow to see the doctor, if you could call him that, bending over beside the bed. When he straightened up the syringe was in his hand, his face flushed and angry, the smug smile nowhere in evidence. Blood dripped from his nose and his eyes glittered with a fury that showed at last the true nature behind the amiable mask.

He stalked over to the bed, hatred on his face, and lashed out, the blow snapping John's head to the side. John's head swam dizzily for a moment and he grimaced, tasting blood on his lip. Dizzy or not, he still struggled when he felt hands pull down the waistband of the scrubs pants over his hip but, with his hands and ankles now pinned, there was nowhere for him to go. Menegle Pete's hand pressed his hip to the mattress, holding him in place, and the sting of the needle was sharp as he stabbed the syringe into the muscle of Sheppard's upper thigh, pushing the plunger down with a snarl of triumph.

The puncture site burned and, for a moment, John thought it was just a reaction to the force of the injection, then he found himself gasping for breath as the burning pain quickly intensified, spreading out through the muscle mass of his thigh, making his leg tremble involuntary.

Pete was still breathing heavily as he leaned over the bed, his face twisted into a malicious sneer. Blood still ran freely from his nose, dripping onto the white sheets as he pushed his face up close to Sheppard's.

"You'll pay for your defiance!" he snarled, a nasty smile creeping onto his face. "This drug is painful when given intravenously – intra-muscular injection intensifies both the effects and the duration. You will have plenty of time to regret your actions!"

Sheppard stared helplessly up at his captor, finding it had to breathe as the fiery pain spread progressively outwards, burning along his nerve strands, setting his muscles to spasming. His hands flexed and clenched helplessly as pain flooded throughout his entire body, sharp and hot and intense. He clenched his teeth, a low moan escaping him.

The lackey had let go of his legs now – it didn't matter. He was helpless, paralysed by pain. He shivered and trembled on the infirmary bed, his captors standing over him, watching in satisfaction as he shook in agony. He couldn't think, couldn't focus on anything but the pain, was only vaguely aware of Pete leaning in close to him again, his words whispered in John's ear.

"In time, John Sheppard, you will tell us everything we want to know."

Sheppard screamed.

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_TBC..._


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed. We are slowly winding this up now and there will be just one more chapter after this one. But Pete's not done with our Sheppard just yet... (grins evilly)_

_As ever, all feedback welcomed and appreciated.._

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"What is the code, Colonel Sheppard?"

Time had no meaning. There was only pain. Pain and questions; the one endless, the other repeated.

"We know you use a security code, Colonel. A code that tells your people to let you safely enter the city. What is that code, Colonel?"

A hand grabbed his chin, twisting his head sharply to the side, and he cried out as the movement intensified the hot, sharp, burning, screaming pain. Blue eyes, very close to his. Cold eyes, angry eyes. The voice that went with them was cold too. The fingers dug cruelly into his chin, holding his head still, and the blue eyes glared at him from mere inches away.

"You will tell us the code, Colonel."

His mouth felt dry. Everything hurt; pain rippled and spasmed up and down his body, trembling his muscles, making him gasp for breath. He swallowed roughly, trying to build up enough moisture to allow his voice to work. What came out was a harsh, cracked whisper, barely loud enough to be heard.

"Fuck you."

They might not have understood the terminology but they got the message. The fingers left his chin, pushing his head roughly aside with a snort of disgust. The blue eyes moved away and a solid impact to his midriff forced the air from his lungs, the flare of pain lost amongst the background noise, mingling with the endless agony that washed through him. It was a reflexive action to curl, brutalised muscles tensing, contracting, pulling the body into a defensive pose. Only he couldn't curl up, could only gasp helplessly for breath as his legs and arms jerked uselessly against the restraints.

He no longer knew anything but pain and confusion, had no concept of how long he had lain here quivering and moaning. He mind felt foggy, slow, and he couldn't remember a time when there hadn't been fiery, all-encompassing pain. The overload of agonising sensation flooded his brain, the cacophony of pain-receptors firing drowning out everything else, blotting out memory and conscious thought, everything but a bloody-minded stubbornness to not give in, not let them win. Everything was a blur of confusion. He could barely even remember why it was so important not to tell them anything but he held on tenaciously to one thought, to one idea: whatever they wanted, he would not give it to them. Whatever they asked, he would not answer.

A face loomed over him, peering down at him with what looked almost like sympathy. His jumbled thoughts threw up a name. Pete. Mengele Pete. A false smile and hard blue eyes. He groaned, screwing his eyes shut as a wave of hot, dark pain washed over and through him.

"Why do you insist on suffering so?" The voice was gentle, eminently reasonable. "You can stop this; put an end to the pain. Just tell us what we need to know.."

He opened his eyes, muscles tremors making his arms tense and pull at the restraints, thick leather, stiff with drying blood, digging into his raw flesh. Pete stood beside the bed, his smile firmly in place, a hypodermic held negligently between finger and thumb. John noted absently that the doctor's smile was genuine now, it lit up his whole face. He was enjoying this.

He held the syringe out towards John, teasing him with it, his voice soft, persuasive. "I can stop the pain for you, John. One small injection.. and your suffering can end. Just tell me the code, John.."

"Fff.. ffuu.." He wanted to scream and shout, howl his defiance at the sonofabitch doing this to him but it was getting hard to breathe now, his vision beginning to gray at the edges as his chest heaved, desperately trying to suck in air. He couldn't get the words out.

Pete's smile faltered, his face twisting with anger. "Stubborn fool!"

John didn't see the blow coming, stars dancing in front of his eyes as the force of it snapped his head to the side. He was stunned for a moment, his head lolling limply on the pillow. He tasted blood in his mouth. He could feel himself starting to slip, losing his grip on the world. The darkness beckoned him, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into its embrace. His eyes slid closed.

"Get away from him you, idiot! Something's wrong!"

Hands. He was distantly aware of hands roughly pulling up the scrubs top, prodding at his chest, something cold and metallic placed against his skin. Every touch, every tiny sensation sent pain flaring and jangling through him. He could feel himself starting to choke, his body jerking involuntarily in an autonomic response to the lack of oxygen.

"Dammit! We're losing him! His body can't tolerate the side-effects any longer."

He was floating in a sea of pain and confusion. He didn't even feel the needle sliding into a vein, was only vaguely aware of the hands holding his arm still as he jerked and convulsed on the infirmary bed. He was grateful when the darkness swallowed him up.

He woke up alone. A persistent, grumbling pain washed him from the comforting darkness, wrapped itself around him like a lover and dropped him, spent and shivering, on the shores of consciousness. He ached all over. It was an effort to open his eyes. White ceiling. It took a ridiculous amount of energy to roll his head on the pillow… every muscle felt weak and trembling. Four white walls, white door. Closed. The room was empty.

After a long time he managed to lift his head enough to look down at himself. White and red and brown. The sheets, the coarse white fabric of the scrubs, were stained and spattered with blood. His blood. Fresh, red blood and drying, brownish blood. He wondered absently how long he'd been here. How long they'd let him writhe and scream under the influence of that awful drug while they fired questions at him, beat him when he refused to answer. His arms hung limply in the restraints. He could barely feel his right hand anymore, just a vague, irritating, throbbing numbness. How long had the blood supply been restricted? Long enough to do permanent damage? He wasn't surprised to find leather restraints now fastened around his ankles too. It worried him that he couldn't recall them doing that.

His memories of the time since Pete had plunged the needle into his thigh were jumbled, confused, a welter of pain and disorientation. He suspected the main purpose of the drug was to confuse and disorient, to make the subject more pliable, to break down their resistance. The accompanying pain was just a happy coincidence.. one Mengele Pete had been more than happy to take advantage of.

He knew he should be doing something, taking advantage of the time alone to try and find a way out of here, but even he had to admit it seemed hopeless. He was trapped in this bed, his arms and legs restrained, and even if he wasn't he doubted he could even get as far as the door, the way he felt right now. His entire body ached and he felt as weak a newborn kitten. He was starting to realise that the only way he was getting out of here was with some outside help. He wondered vaguely where his team were, if they had any idea where he was.

Tired and weak or not, he couldn't help the involuntary tensing of his muscles as the door opened.

Mengele Pete got straight down to business. He had a new lackey to replace the dear departed Muttley and the new guy was eager to impress the boss, his hand hard and heavy on Sheppard's cheek as he pushed his head over to the left, twisting John's neck painfully, pressing his face into the pillow.

Pete's voice was mild, conversational, as he made preparations that Sheppard couldn't see, metal and glass clinking somewhere to John's right.

"There is no more time for pleasantries, Colonel Sheppard. You have wasted far too much of my time already with your pointless stubbornness. It was really quite foolish of you to hold on for as long as you did; the side effects of my little concoction are very hard on the body, they can be quite lethal if allowed to go on too long."

John could hear the smug smile in Pete's voice, his words growing louder as he leaned over the bed. "I'm afraid we won't be letting you go quite that easily, John."

Sheppard's cry was muffled by the pillow as he felt the unexpected prick of the needle in his neck. Pete didn't bother to be gentle as he plunged the hypodermic straight into the vein and John couldn't help his neck muscles from tensing at the sharp pain. The new lackey pushed down harder, pinning John's head in place, as Pete depressed the plunger. The rush was immediate, the vein immediately carrying the drug the short distance to John's brain.

He was only vaguely aware of the release of pressure on his face. He didn't move his head, couldn't move his head. He was utterly limp. He was floating.

Pete's voice echoed oddly. "No more time to waste, John."

Sheppard was lost, drifting in a sea of sensation. He felt hot all over, his muscles loose and relaxed. His head swam dizzingly.

"What is the code, John?" The voice sounded tinny, far away.

What? Code? He struggled to focus on the voice but everything was blurry, the room shifting around him.

"Give us the code, John." The voice was reasonable, persuasive. He frowned, trying to see who was talking to him, and managed to focus on blue, blue eyes and a warm smile. Blue eyes.. he knew someone with blue eyes, didn't he? Someone who was… was a friend..

"Are you my friend?.." His lips felt thick and clumsy, his words coming out garbled and slurred.

"Yes, John, that's right. We're your friends and we need your help. You need to tell us the code, John.."

He drifted, his thoughts tumbling over one another, tangled and confused, his body feeling at once heavy and extraordinarily light.

"John!" The voice was sharper now, a hand on his shoulder snapping John out of his reverie. "You need to help us, John. What is the code to the city?"

"The code?" Code to the city. The city. He had a sudden image of towering spires, stained glass windows, walls in delicate hues of blue and green. He smiled dreamily. It was beautiful.

"Yes, John. Our city is beautiful. We need to go back there. We will take you back there with us, John, but first you need to tell us the code."

The city. He wanted so much to go back to that beautiful city.

"The code.."

There was a loud noise somewhere nearby. A crashing, banging, terrifying noise. John opened his eyes in confusion and saw the blue-eyed man flinch. His tangled thoughts threw up an odd word. Ex-ploh-shun.

Fingers gripped his chin, turning his face to meet those blue, blue eyes. There was emotion in that face now, the blue eyes were filled with… with fear?

"There's no time left, John! You have to tell us the code! Please! They'll kill us all!"

Kill? Kill who? Who's they? Nothing made any sense.

The was another loud noise, much closer now, and the blue-eyed man let go of his face. There was shouting, screaming, a loud staccato rattle of noise, and the blue-eyed man's voice had turned red and angry, shouting and yelling at someone.

There was a loud crash and the door to the room flew open.

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_TBC..._


	4. Chapter 4

_Man this was a marathon of a chapter. So much that I wanted to fit and it just kept running away with me! Anyway, most of the loose ends are wrapped up now although there's a thread poking out here and there that I may come back one day and tidy up – who knows? But for now this is done with – my other projects await!_

_Thanks to all who read and reviewed, hope you enjoy the finale – please do hit the review button and let me know what you think of it.

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_

The first thing Teyla saw when they burst into the small, white room was an overly large, muscle-bound man. For a brief moment or two that was all she saw. But only for a moment or two.. the man's technique was poor and he relied too much on his strength and bulk. Against an experienced fighter such as herself, he didn't stand a chance. The second thing she saw, as she stepped over the unconscious body, was the blood. Thinking back on it later, she reasoned that she must have seen more than that, must have looked at the infirmary-style bed and at its occupant, but her sole, abiding memory of that moment was of blood. Blood on the white floor, on the white walls, on the starched sheets and the infirmary scrubs. Bright red on white.

She moved towards the bed as if in a dream, her gaze taking in the blood-stained scrubs, the bruises and drying blood on the Colonel's face and.. she swallowed.. the thick leather straps that bound his wrists and ankles to the rails of the bed, those around his wrists smeared and stained with blood, the skin underneath red and raw with it. Colonel Sheppard lay limp and unmoving on the bed, his chest rising and falling slowly, his limbs hanging limply from the restraints, offering no resistance as Rodney gently turned his head on the pillow, gazing with concern into the Colonel's eyes.

Teyla knew the very moment when Ronon saw what had been done to Sheppard; saw the blood. Like her, he had been focused on the fight as he entered the room, dispatching a second muscle-bound guard with a few concise moves, he and Teyla spearheading the attack while Rodney headed straight for Sheppard and Lorne's team covered the corridor. Within mere moments of their arrival the only remaining occupant of the room, aside from their team, was a tall man with sharp, blue eyes, dressed in the garb of a doctor. He had cowered back from them as they decimated his guards, his face a warring mixture of hatred and fear.

Rodney, on reaching the infirmary bed, had breathed out a curse, his voice rich with horror and dismay, "Oh my god!" and Ronon had turned his head from the cowering man, getting his first proper look at the occupant of the bed. Teyla's attention was on the Colonel, shock leaving her stunned for a moment as she watched Rodney peer closely at Sheppard's face, and she did not see Ronon's reaction to the sight, only heard his roar of fury. By the time she turned around he had the blue-eyed man pinned to the wall by his throat, the tall warrior's face a mask of rage. The man in the doctor's robes was clearly terrified, squirming weakly against the stranglehold on his neck, his hands clawing futilely at Ronon's, but, looking back to the Colonel, she could not find any pity in her heart for this man.

It all happened so quickly. She saw Ronon's hand tighten around the man's neck even as Dr McKay suddenly straightened from the Colonel's bed, realising what was happening and shouting out, "Ronon, no!"

There was a sickening crunching noise and the blue-eyed man gurgled helplessly. Too late. Ronon's face showed his disgust as he let the body drop to the floor.

Rodney was furious, his face flushed red as he yelled at the Satedan, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Ronon's face was set, unrepentant. He looked past McKay to where Sheppard's head lolled loosely on the blood-stained pillow. "He deserved to die."

Rodney was practically spitting as he glared at Ronon. "Well, that's as maybe, _Conan_, but as it happens we needed him alive!"

He gestured angrily at the bed and Teyla frowned as she took in the Colonel's condition; he was awake but seemed confused, sluggish, barely reacting to his surroundings, despite the shouting and violence. "Look at him! That son of a bitch has given him something, _drugged_ him with something and I'm thinking perhaps it _might_ have been helpful to Carson if we could have, oh I dunno, found out what crap they've been shoving into his veins – and maybe asked the man nicely for the antidote, hmmm?"

Rodney's voice was harsh, his sarcasm more cutting than usual, and Teyla knew his anger stemmed from his fear for his friend; a fear they all shared. Even Ronon seemed to have a moment of doubt, his voice not quite as confident as he rumbled, "Beckett's a good doctor. He'll fix him."

"Well, he'll _have_ to now, won't he? Cos dead guy over there in the corner's sure not going to be any help!"

"Rodney," She kept her voice deliberately calm, not allowing her own fear and anger to show. "We do not have time for this; we must leave."

A burst of gunfire from the corridor gave an added impetus to her words and McKay forgot his anger in a second, his moods shifting like coloured lights that used to sometimes light the winter sky on the long nights of Athos. He turned quickly back to the bed, his lips pressed tight as peered closely into the Colonel's face. He snapped his fingers in front of Sheppard's eyes.

"Colonel Sheppard? Can you hear me, Colonel? It's Dr McKay.."

"I think he knows who you are.."

McKay rounded on Ronon sharply, his colour quickly rising again. "You think so, huh? Have you taken a look at his _eyes_ recently?"

Ronon frowned and Teyla joined him as he leaned forward. She had been so disturbed by the Colonel's immediate physical condition, by the bloodstains and evidence of torture, that she had not seen whatever had made McKay so worried. Her heart sank as she saw the Colonel's eyes. The dark centres of his eyes had shrunk to tiny pinpricks; there was no focus to his gaze, no life in his eyes. He looked right through Rodney, right through her, as though they did not exist. She had seen such symptoms before, in those who ate the keera berries that her father had warned her about.

"Colonel?" He seemed to respond sluggishly to McKay's voice, his oddly vacant eyes blinking slowly as he tried to focus on Rodney's face.

"Blue.." Sheppard's words were slurred, his voice cracked and dry. Teyla wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly.

"What?" Rodney's voice mirrored her own confusion.

"Are you my friend?.."

"Yes, Colonel," McKay's voice cracked slightly, the tightness in his throat masked with exasperation, "I'm your friend. We've come to take you home."

Sheppard frowned drowsily. "Need me to tell you the code.."

They all froze for a moment at that, their eyes meeting in immediate understanding of what had gone on here. McKay was the first to recover himself.

"Bastards," he muttered darkly and reached over the Colonel's body to begin freeing his left hand.

Ronon quickly unfastened the straps around Sheppard's ankles as Rodney and Teyla worked carefully on the restraints at his wrists. The leather was stiff and unwieldy, caked in dried blood, slippery with fresh. Despite the urgency of their situation, Teyla took her time to work the strap free from the buckle, her eyes noting with concern the dusky colour of the Colonel's hand.

Eventually she got the strap unfastened, holding his arm gingerly as she carefully, gently, peeled the blood-soaked leather away from Sheppard's wrist. She grimaced at what was revealed. The flesh beneath was raw, abraded, the skin scraped away to reveal angry, red flesh and blood, so much blood; crusted and drying, still oozing from the exposed flesh. Sheppard gave a sudden groan, a choked, pitiful sound, and she looked up to see his face crease in a frown of pain.

"Hurts," he hissed faintly. His arm trembled weakly in her hands as the blood flow began to return his hand, painfully reperfusing the starved tissues.

"I know, Colonel," she soothed, keeping her voice low and calm, as though as to a child, "but we be home soon and Dr Beckett will care for your pain. Just a little while longer, Colonel."

Gunfire sounded again from the corridor closely followed by Lorne's tense shout, "Getting pretty tight out here guys, we need to get moving!"

There was no more time for finesse. Finally free of the restraints, they laid Sheppard's arms limply on the bed and Teyla and Rodney stepped clear as Ronon slipped his arms under the Colonel's battered body and lifted, bearing the weight easily as he, as gently as possible under the circumstances, slung Sheppard's limp form over his shoulders. Teyla couldn't help but notice Sheppard's involuntary grunt of pain but, other than that, the Colonel did not react, his limbs dangling loosely as Ronon turned for the door. His lack of response worried Teyla even more.

Outside in the corridor, all was chaos. Lorne's team were under attack, struggling to keep the enemy pinned down at the end of the corridor, keeping the exit clear for Sheppard's team. The major began shouting orders, pulling his men back as soon as Ronon carried Sheppard from the small room. Having the Colonel draped over one shoulder didn't seem to cramp Ronon's style to any great degree as he aimed and fired his gun with his one free hand as they executed what Sheppard would have called a "strategic withdrawal". Rodney would have possibly described it something more like "run like hell for the gate" and it almost felt that way to Teyla, the sense of urgency almost overwhelming. Their enemy was persistent, dogging them all the way to the gate, Lorne's marines fighting a hard-won rearguard action to protect them. It seemed they _really_ didn't want to let Sheppard go.

She had rarely been so relieved to see the event horizon explode out towards her and to step through the gate to the safety of Atlantis.

* * *

Teyla had never seen Dr Beckett so furious. He had been waiting for them in the gateroom and had cursed out loud when Ronon had laid Sheppard down onto the waiting gurney, his angry words shocking the entire control room. Usually so mild mannered, Teyla knew the doctor had a core of moral strength to him that few could match. He might not be strong or brave or a warrior like Ronon but she knew when it came to caring for and protecting his patients, he would stand up to a Wraith queen if necessary. His eyes had spoken of his disgust at the things men could do to one another even as he had rapidly assessed the Colonel's injuries, issuing orders to his team as they set the gurney rolling quickly towards the infirmary.

Even now, hours later, Carson was still angry. She could see it in the tenseness of his posture, in the uncustomary glower on his face, the way he picked things up and put them down just that little bit too hard as he moved restlessly around the infirmary.

"Dr Beckett," her voice was low, soothing, trying to calm the agitated man.

He seemed almost startled as he looked round at her, as though he had forgotten she were there. One or more of Ronon, Rodney or she had stayed constantly by the Colonel's bedside in the hours since his return, making sure he was never alone.

"Aye, lass?" The doctor seemed to have to force his usual congeniality into his voice, his smile seemingly stretched too tight.

"It has been many hours, Dr Beckett. When can we expect the Colonel to awake?" Perhaps discussing his patient might distract him… or let him give words to the emotion troubling him.

Beckett sighed. "I honestly can't say, lass. We know very little about whatever drug they gave him. Most of it was metabolised by the time we were able to sample his blood and our lab tests can only tell us so much – it seems to have been similar in some ways to a variety of earth drugs we call opiates."

He sighed again and ran a hand restlessly through his already ruffled hair and Teyla thought she heard him mutter something under his breath; she could not be sure of the words but thought she caught the word "bastards" in there somewhere. Dr McKay had explained many of the earth swearwords to Ronon and she and Teyla recalled that that was one of the somewhat less polite ones. It was certainly not a word one would usually expect to hear used by the kind-hearted Scot.

"Dr Beckett?" She drew his attention back to the bed and the sleeping Colonel. Carson's restless motion stilled as he looked down at his patient, his lips tight and set with anger as he took in the gauzy bandages wrapped around both wrists, the mottled bruising across Sheppard's face, steri-strips holding closed a couple of nasty cuts on his cheek and forehead. And that was only the visible damage. It said nothing of the signs of blunt force trauma to the chest and abdomen, the needle marks on Sheppard's thigh, arm and neck, the unknown residual effects of whatever dangerous chemicals they had injected him with.

The Colonel had been almost unconscious when he came through the gate, his eyelids drooping over those disturbing, pin-prick pupilled eyes. He had seemed completely unaware of his surroundings, remaining limp and non-reactive as Carson and his team had poked and prodded him and ran their tests. Teyla had been guiltily relieved when those sightless eyes had finally slid shut and the Colonel had slipped into unconsciousness. Now she began to wonder when – or if – he would ever reawaken.

She stayed silent as she watched Dr Beckett look down at Sheppard, the anger radiating off him in waves as they both imagined what this man, their friend, had been through in that awful place, and when he lifted his eyes to hers she was surprised to find them glistening. The fury seemed to drain from him, his shoulders sagging, and his voice was plaintive as he asked her, "How can someone _do_ that to another human being, Teyla? How can they take pleasure in causing such harm? Take knowledge and science and use it to torture a man?"

Teyla had no answers for him; the same questions plagued her thoughts as she sat at Colonel Sheppard's bedside and watched him in his drugged sleep.

"I do not know, Dr Beckett. But I do know that as long as people such as you and I have the strength to fight them, we will do what we can to stop such things from happening again," she offered him what little comfort she could.

The smile he gave her was weak but genuine, a glimpse of the Carson Beckett she knew and respected; the man of healing, of caring. She smiled warmly in return.

"Hey, Teyla."

She and Carson looked around instinctively at Ronon's deep, rumbling voice. The Satedan had been hanging around the infirmary a lot since Sheppard's return. He was never one to show his emotions openly but Teyla knew he felt a deep kinship with the Colonel and, she suspected, was also feeling a little guilty that his actions on the planet – whilst entirely justifiable to his mind – may have slowed or endangered Sheppard's chances of recovery.

"How's he doing?" Ronon hovered at the end of the bed, a jerk of his chin indicating Sheppard as he spoke.

Carson's voice seemed almost back to its usual, confident timbre as he ran through the Colonel's condition for Ronon.

"His physical injuries will heal in time – though his wrists are a mess and he may well be left with some scarring. He just about ripped all the skin off trying to get out of those restraints…" His words faltered as his thoughts dwelled on that image, a hint of anger momentarily darkening his face, before seeming to make a concerted effort to shake it off.

"I'm more worried about the residual effects of whatever drugs they gave him. We have no way to know what damage they may have done." Carson looked up at Ronon's face as he spoke and seemed to catch a glimpse of the guilt Teyla suspected lurked there, the doctor's face softening immediately.

"Now don't go blaming yourself lad, you'd no way to know. And seeing how they've treated to the Colonel, I highly doubt that man would ever have told you anything helpful."

Teyla thought to add her reassurances to Beckett's but at that moment a sound from the bed drew all their attention. Sheppard's face was creased into a frown, a soft moan escaping his lips as he stirred weakly. As they watched, his eyes fluttered open.

Carson was as the bedside in seconds, leaning close to peer into the Colonel's eyes, his voice calm and reassuring as he asked, "Colonel Sheppard? John? Can you hear me, son?"

For a moment Sheppard's gaze was blank, confused, and then his eyes widened in what looked to Teyla like anger and terrible, terrible fear and she jumped in shock as the Colonel screamed and lashed out.

* * *

Sheppard awoke to pain. Aching pain that encompassed every muscle, every fibre of his being. He couldn't help the quiet moan that escaped him as he shuddered his way to consciousness. For a moment, when he opened his eyes, everything was confused, jumbled. Somehow he was expecting white – a white ceiling – but instead it was greenish-blue, a gentle pastel shade, and his instincts told him that was good, that was safe. But then someone leant over him and a voice was calling his name, calling him John; a soft, reasonable voice and a smiling face with blue, blue eyes. His spine arched as terror and hatred flooded through him and he felt the IV in his arm, the starched sheets against his skin and he screamed his fear and his anger. Infirmary. No, no, he was back in the infirmary bed with needles and restraints and pain and he had to get out, had to get out of here. He lashed out at the blue-eyed man and pain exploded through his arm as his tender flesh connected with the face looming over him, the blue eyes falling away.

His aching muscles screamed and protested as he flung himself desperately over the railings of the bed, not caring where he landed, just needing to get away from here. His legs gave under him as he hit the floor but surging adrenalin gave him strength, and he pushed himself awkwardly to his hands and knees, his arms burning with fiery pain as he dragged himself across the floor. There was chaos and confusion, voices shouting, calling his name. All that mattered was escape, getting out of here. He screamed when hands grabbed at him, his voice cracking as he shouted his defiance, struggling and kicking as someone lifted him bodily from the floor. He swung out wildly, his fist connecting with something solid and seconds later a hand gripped his wrist, pinning his arm. He couldn't hold back the scream of agony that tore from him at the tight pressure that dug into his abraded flesh, sending fiery pain shooting up his arm.

"Ronon!"

"Sorry!"

Voices nearby, jumbled and confused, but the tight grip was gone from his wrist. He lashed out furiously again, striking solid flesh, and a rumbling voice cried, "Dammit!"

Arms like steel bands encircled him from behind, pressing him back against a firm chest, pinning his arms to his sides. He shouted and fought, kicking desperately, but he was growing tired now, the surge of adrenalin fading, and he felt despair as he realised he had failed again in his attempt to get free. His heart was pounding in his chest as his eyes darted frantically around the room, searching for a way out.

And then soft hands were clasping his face, turning his head, holding him still as deep brown eyes tried to capture his panicked gaze. Not blue eyes; not sharp, cold, blue eyes but warm, brown eyes and a gentle smile and a voice that was low and warm, like smooth chocolate. He looked into those eyes and let that warm voice wash over him and suddenly the words began to make sense and the face came into focus. The sense of relief was overwhelming and the last of his energy flooded out of him, his legs giving way, the strong arms around his chest the only thing holding him upright as his surroundings suddenly slotted into place.

"Teyla?" he gasped.

* * *

They were all taken by surprise by Sheppard's violent reaction, Carson most of all. Beckett was unprepared for the fist that came swinging his way and the blow stunned him, toppling him backwards to land on his rump on the infirmary floor. Before Teyla could do more than take a step towards the dazed doctor, Colonel Sheppard was scrambling from the bed, his eyes wild and panicked. He crumpled to the floor immediately and for a moment she was torn as to whom to turn to first.

"Ronon!"

The Satedan was already moving. "I'll take care of Sheppard!"

She rushed to crouch by Carson who still sat slumped on the floor, blinking slowly as he pressed a hand to his jaw. "Oowww.."

"Dr Beckett? Are you alright?"

He seemed to shake himself at her words, waving off her concern. "I'm fine, lass. He just knocked me for a loop for a moment there.."

The earth slang was confusing to her but he seemed to be getting over his shock and his head was as quick to turn as hers when more screams and shouts rent the peaceful air of the infirmary.

"Oh my god, the Colonel!"

She helped Beckett shakily to his feet and the two of them were stunned to see Sheppard struggling and squirming in Ronon's grip, kicking and flailing wildly. Before they could move to intervene, Sheppard's fist caught Ronon in the face and the Satedan instinctively grabbed hold of the Colonel's wrist, trying to block further blows. Sheppard's howl of pain was like a dagger in her heart and her voice was sharp as she rebuked the tall warrior.

"Ronon!"

He realised his mistake at once, releasing the trapped limb with a startled, "Sorry!" and, almost immediately, Sheppard punched him again, struggling with a strength born of desperation to get free of his captor's grip. The Colonel's face was a mask of terror and pain, his consciousness too lost in the nightmare of his recent experiences to recognise that he was home, that he was safe, that the people he was fighting so hard to escape were his friends.

"Dammit!" Ronon cursed fluidly as the blow slammed into his cheekbone and, with a growl of impatience, dropped his arms to wrap around the Colonel's chest, pinning Sheppard's arms in place and hauling him upright. Sheppard continued to struggle and yell as Teyla and Carson rushed forward to help, his panicked eyes looking through them as though they weren't there, searching for escape from his pain, from his nightmare.

It was an instinctive movement to grab his face between her hands, to try to make him focus on her, to forge a connection and ground him in this reality. His skin was hot and damp beneath her hands, sweat trickling between her fingers as his eyes darted from place to place desperately.

"Colonel Sheppard! Colonel, it is Teyla. You are safe, Colonel. You are back in Atlantis, there is no-one here to harm you."

She kept talking, making her words a continuous flow of gentle reassurance, trying to break through his panic and fear and bring him back to them. She kept her eyes on his, holding his gaze, his attention, until finally his breathing began to slow and she saw, literally saw, the life come back into his eyes as he awoke from his nightmare and recognized her face.

"Teyla?" His soft cry was that of a plaintive child, scared and afraid.

"Yes, John. It is I. You are safe. You are home."

He sagged in Ronon's arms and the tall man found himself struggling to change his grip, to keep Sheppard from falling as the fight drained from the Colonel's body. For the second time that day, the Satedan found himself lifting Sheppard in his arms.

Carson was hovering, fussing over his patient, as Ronon carried the exhausted Colonel back to his bed and gently laid him down. The doctor tutted and frowned over the small, bloody wound where Sheppard had torn his IV loose and the blood stains seeping through the bandages at his wrist, while Sheppard simply gazed tiredly at Teyla and Ronon, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from the faces of his friends.

He licked dry lips as Carson muttered to himself about having to re-bandage the wounds. Sheppard's voice was dry and cracked, his words so quiet Teyla almost missed it.

"I'm home?"

She smiled broadly and was pleased to see the faintest hint of an answering smile on the Colonel's lips. "Yes, John. You are home."

"Colonel?"

Teyla couldn't help but notice Sheppard flinch slightly as he turned his gaze to Carson. She frowned for a moment as she remembered the blue-eyed man in doctor's garb in that awful, white, blood-stained room. She wondered if they would ever know the full extent of what that man had done to John. Knowing the Colonel, she doubted he would ever tell them.

"How are you feeling, son?"

Sheppard's eyes were dark, his forehead pulled into a frown and Teyla suspected the answer before he spoke. "Hurts." His voice was quiet, drained. A cold shiver ran through her as she looked at the battered, exhausted man. If Sheppard was admitting to his pain then he must really be hurting. She thought again of the blue-eyed man and for a moment was fiercely glad of Ronon's actions.

"Okay, son. I'll give you something for the pain."

Sheppard's eyes focused tiredly on the reddening patch on Beckett's jaw as the doctor spoke.

"M'sorry.." he mumbled.

"Don't you worry about it, son," Carson brushed his apology aside carelessly, "I've had worse from bigger'n you, lad. Glasgow's a tough place to grow up.."

Sheppard grinned slightly at Carson's teasing but Teyla saw him flinch, his smile fading quickly, as Beckett held up a syringe and began to carefully draw a measured dose of painkillers. There was suddenly a tension in the air and Teyla realised the Colonel was trembling, his attention riveted on the hypodermic in Beckett's hands, sweat springing up on his brow.

"Colonel?" She moved to the side of the bed as she spoke but he didn't look at her, couldn't tear his gaze from the needle, from the fluid-filled tube. Carson had realised something was wrong and he stood still now, the syringe held carefully in his hand, anxious not to spook the agitated Colonel.

"Colonel Sheppard." She took his hand in hers and now he did turn to look at her and in his eyes she saw such fear, such dread, that she felt her heart freeze with sorrow for the suffering this gentle, brave man had endured. "You are safe here, Colonel. No-one will harm you. We wish only to ease your pain. You can trust us, John."

He nodded sharply, his body still tense, and she flicked her eyes to Carson, seeing his understanding of her unspoken request, before turning her gaze back to John, capturing his eyes with hers, talking to him softly, constantly, reassuring him that he was home, he was safe and everything would be alright. He flinched when the needle pierced his arm but kept his eyes on Teyla and she kept talking to him, kept up the flow of words, her voice soft and calm, as Carson carefully depressed the plunger and withdrew the needle.

John shuddered then, the tension flooding out of his body as he sank back against the pillows, exhaustion written in every line of his face. Teyla kept hold of his hand, kept talking to him as his eyes began to droop, the lines of pain easing from his face.

He kept his eyes on hers until the very last moment, blinking owlishly as the painkillers took effect, pulling him towards healing sleep, his attention focused only on her face, her voice, her words.

"You are safe now, John. You are home. It's okay to sleep. We will be here when you awake. Sleep now, John."

His eyes slid slowly closed and Teyla lets her words tail gradually away as his breathing evened out and his hand relaxed in hers. John Sheppard slept, home again, safe in Atlantis.

* * *

_Fin.._


End file.
